


Iqaqpaa

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-29
Updated: 2005-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: "Ican'tfucking do myjob!" I'm angry now, and almost yelling. "I can'trememberanything!"





	Iqaqpaa

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Iqaqpaa

## Iqaqpaa

  
by Nemi  


Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Thank you *so* much to Kimberly for being an incredible, incredible, *incredible* beta! "Iaqpaa" is Inuktitut, and means "to remember."

Story Notes: Very slight spoilers for Burning Down the House, Odds, The Ladies Man and Say Amen.

* * *

**_PART ONE: MOVING BACKWARDS_**

  


Okay. Um. _Ow._

The pounding in my head grows as the light brightens. My headache reaches its apparent all-time high, about the same time I finally manage to pry my eyes open and focus on the guy standing by the foot of my... bed? 

Hospital bed? Oh great. 

The guy says something I miss in all the _skull-splitting_ headache I have, and then gives a smile that's all but blinding me. He moves forward, and I weakly hold up a hand to stop him. Oh jeez, that smarts. My head's not all that's hurting. There's a dull ache coming from somewhere high in my chest, but compared to the headache, it's a walk in the park. I need to get my head on straight here, get my mind workin' before I can deal with talking. He looks confused as fuck, and I give a mental snort. Yeah, join the club, pal! He stops, standing a little to the side of the bed and - thankfully - blocking some the harsh daylight coming from outside. 

Now, let's see. Okay, how did I get here? I was... I... I can't remember. 

I close my eyes again for just a second as my brain tries to come up with the last thing I remember. The last thing I remember... The last thing I... remember...? My eyes spring open as realization hits me, and look straight at the guy who's looking more and more concerned by the second. 

"Are you okay?" he asks gently, but I can't get myself to reply, I can't make a sound. 

"You seem distressed." 

No shit, Sherlock! I have a headache so big it's threatening to unionize up here, I'm in a freakin' _hospital_ , I have a yet unidentified pain in my chest, and this guy's looking at me like he knows me, and I... I... 

"Who am I? " I sputter. 

  


* * *

  


_September 15, 1997._

"Dad, where would you build an office?" Fraser asked. "Can you even do that in the afterlife?" 

"Oh, yes, indeed," Bob Fraser explained patiently as they walked through the empty hallways. "It's just a matter of finding a suitable place, and I'll be set up in no time." 

Fraser pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day and a lot of information to take in, and his father apparently deciding to settle in to watch over him was just another headache to his already growing list of pains. "So I take it this means these little visits of yours won't stop, then?" 

"Well, you don't have to sound so excited about it," Bob remarked dryly, following Fraser through the door to the parking lot. "You know, I always appreciated the advice my father gave me, every single word of it-" 

"Dad," Fraser interrupted him. "It's not that, but it's been a very long day, and I'm-" 

"Fraser?" 

Fraser's mouth shut with an audible snap as he turned to find Ray standing by his rental car, staring at him. Ray. Not the real Ray, but Fraser really didn't know what else to call him. His entire day had been nothing but surreal, from one end to another; coming back to Chicago to find Ray Vecchio gone, and this... stranger in his place, had been more than a little disturbing. And he couldn't help but miss Ray Vecchio. To accept this blonde man as Ray Vecchio, when they both knew for a fact he _wasn't_ , was hard. But Lieutenant Welsh had said that this Ray was a good man, and when Welsh said so, Fraser couldn't do anything else but believe him. 

"Who you talking to?" Ray asked with a frown, pulling Fraser out of his thoughts. 

"I-" Fraser started, looking towards his father, but the older man was no longer there. Turning back to Ray, he just shook his head. "Nobody. Just thinking out loud." 

Ray gave him a look that plainly said "You are unhinged," but he didn't speak, just opened the door for the passenger's side, before walking around the front and getting in behind the wheel. Taking a deep breath, Fraser got in and a minute later they were pulling out of the parking lot. 

"If you would be so kind to stop by the Consulate first, perhaps? I'll need to get some money, and I'm afraid I didn't have the foresight to bring them with me," Fraser said, then added as an afterthought, "You do remember where the Consulate is?" 

It came out just a little bit snippier than he'd intended, and he silently scolded himself. He'd promised he'd give this man a chance, and Fraser always kept his promise. 

"Nah, it's on me," Ray said. "And I do remember, you know? I remembered before, too. I just forgot they'd moved it, that's all." 

"Ah," said Fraser. 

"Mhm," Ray confirmed with a nod. "I just forgot." 

  


* * *

  


Stanley. Stan. I roll it around in my head. I don't like it. 

No wonder I go by Ray. 

What kinda name is Stanley Kowalski?! Apparently, my father had a thing for Brando, or so they tell me. I stare down at the files and papers spread across my lap in the hospital bed. Fraser isn't saying anything, he just sits there, unreadable expression on his face as he watches me process everything. It's a fucking lot to process, but I've freaked about eight times already. I know by now that it'll only get my headache started again and I still won't be any wiser. Fraser was cool about it, though, not really saying anything until I'd calmed down, then offering me water and asking quietly if I was okay. 

I looked at his pictures first, trying to get a grip on the guy who supposedly is my partner, because in the past few days he's talked a lot; about me, about the job we do, about his dog-wolf, and a whole bunch about some Inuit guys and igloos and shit. But he ain't never really talked about himself. I get a few things from his behavior, that's a given. He's so freakin' polite it's surreal. He says "thank you kindly" instead of just "thanks" like normal people. He's calm and quiet and doesn't nag or annoy me much, which is why I don't mind him staying with me as much as he does. But I kinda get the feeling he's hiding something from me, and I wanna know more, 'cause... Hell, I gotta get to know _everybody_ in my life all over again, and he's as good a place to start as any, right? So I looked at the pictures. 

In all of them, he was in his this red, funky-lookin' uniform. Canadian Mountie, they said. All Fraser said, was "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father." And yeah, I guess the uniform pretty much proved that he was a Mountie, alright, unless he was some kind of full-time nut-job costume freak, which I kinda doubted. He seemed more or less sane to me, but I took a knock to the head and stopped breathing for almost two minutes, so what do I know? 

Fraser's not wearing the uniform now. He's just sitting quietly in his chair, deep green shirt and jeans, with his leather jacket hung neatly on the hook by the door. I got special treatment for bein' a police officer and all. Private room. Pretty cool. 

I must've been a pretty happy guy, I think, moving my hand over one picture that's half concealed under the copy of my birth certificate. I'm smiling, apparently laughing at some joke or another. It looks like Christmas, 'cause on the green wall behind me there's some kind of glitter, and I'm holding what looks to be eggnog. I'm wearing a green jacket, complete with a shoulder holster and badge strapped to it, and on my head perches Fraser's hat. The same hat that's now resting on the small table next to his chair. Seems like the guy just doesn't leave home without it. I move the birth certificate out of the way to see the rest of the picture, and recognize the other two persons in it immediately. 

Francesca was in here earlier, sobbing and crying all along. It made me uncomfortable 'cause I didn't know how to react, but in this picture, she looks real happy. Fraser's next to her, and she's kinda leaning into him, looking up at him with definite adoration in her eyes. He, of course, is in his red uniform as usual, but his face... I glance quickly over at him and motion to the picture. 

"So, uh, you got knocked around a bit?" 

He leans over to see the picture I'm looking at and nods. 

"Yes," he says simply, and leaves it at that. 

It's okay, I've gotten used to it. Ever since he learned that I can't really remember much of anything - nothing, actually - he's been all quiet and stoic around me. I wonder briefly if he's just as sad at Francesca, only better at hiding it, or if he's really so cryptic all the time. He doesn't sound sad, though, and he doesn't look at me funny. Or pitying. He always just smiles a little and meets my eyes and silently tells me everything's gonna be okay, which I somehow doubt at this point, but whatever. I appreciate the sentiment. 

I look back at the picture, notice once more how Francesca's leaning into him, and look up at him again. 

"So are you and Francesca close?" I ask, pointing. It didn't seem like it when she was here, but maybe they've broken up. It's almost June now, and a lot could've happened since Christmas. 

He actually sputters a little at that, and I feel surprisingly pleased for making him drop the statue-act. 

"Francesca and me? Good heavens, no," he says, clearing his throat. "Although I care for her, of course, and she has certainly displayed a certain... affection for me over the years. But we were never... close, as you put it." 

I turn my head back towards the pile in my lap and take the thickest file of them all, the one that's neatly marked "March 17,1999 - Tanner," and right next to it, another label with a quick scribble on it: "March 23, 1999 - Vecchio." 

Immediately, Fraser goes all tense next to me, and for a second I feel real good about making him worried. It means he cares. Not just like staying here with me and helpin' my crippled mind out, y'know, because obviously he's my partner and that's what partners do. But he cares enough to be worried this might be too much for me. My last case was the one that landed me in here. Welsh, my lieutenant, dropped by a few days ago and helped Fraser explain it all; my involvement in the case, my duties at the station, my undercover gig as Vecchio (and how fucked up is _that_?), and told me a few stories about myself. Helping me getting a grip on who I am, I guess. 

"I'm fine," I tell him, briefly waving my hand in his directing. It pulls on my IV and the almost-pain of it feels... nice. Grounding. 

I start reading through the file. Damon Tanner was a gang-banger who'd been making his living by dealing drugs to kids, and someone I knew down at a local youth center had told me. We'd first handed it off to Narcotics, 'cause shit like this was their league, but after a few days the first victim of an OD had turned up dead in an alley, heroin bag neatly in his pocket. Seems I was the one who pushed to get back in on the case. Welsh told me I was stubborn as fuck, a quality that made me a good detective. Whatever. I still got clobbered. 

I briefly glance at the pictures from the coroner and feel my stomach do a little jig, so I quickly move on. From what I can figure, we'd somehow - and what was this about Fraser _licking_ the deceased's boots? - traced the deceased's last steps and ended up at a known hangout of Tanner and his gang. There had been a confrontation, and that's where it had all gone down. The gang-bangers had opened fire on us, and around here the report gets all rushed and not overly detailed, just the bare necessities, but I remember clearly what Fraser told me. 

I had been firing back, because that's what I do. That's what I did. We'd both, Fraser and I, taken cover behind a table right near the door, so I could get my glasses ("Why the fuck didn't I ever get contacts?" "You said it was too much hassle, Ray."), and suddenly some big guy had grabbed Fraser from behind, throwing him into the wall. I'd turned and raised my gun, and that's when someone carpe'd the diem and knocked me down from behind. Fraser wasn't sure what he'd used, but I was still conscious at that point. I was struggling to my feet again, when the big guy - get this - grabbed the fire extinguisher from it's stand by the door and brought it right down on top of my head. All the way to the ground. 

Fraser had looked up at that point, and his voice got kinda shaky - I guess that's what a Canadian freak-out looks like - as he told me he could see my head in the second it got squished between the floor and the fire extinguisher. Personally, I can't remember it, can't remember feeling the pain, but I winced anyhow. It didn't exactly sound comfortable, you know? But that this was _me_ Fraser was talking about, that was _my_ head that got squished! That was just surreal. Still is. Could've happened to Joe Schmo Nobody for all I care. 

Fraser had stopped talking there, and I'd only gotten like the Cliff Notes version of the rest of the story. My eyes scan the report for the whole nine yards. They'd still been shooting up the place, I guess, because Fraser had to make a serious run for it, leaving me there. The statement says that he thought I was dead. I wonder if his voice was shaky like it was before, when he gave his statement and told Detective... Huey, was it? that he thought I was dead. Must've been hard on him. According to all sources, me and Fraser were close, and having to leave your friend behind for dead? That's gotta suck in any country. 

When the back-up finally got in there, both forensics and paramedics had arrived as well, I was bleeding all over the place - someone had given me a good kicking while I was down, too - and some moron gang-banger had run off with my gun. They got it back and got me to the hospital. I stopped breathing in the ambulance on the way over, but the paramedics worked good on me, and got me breathing again. Got me stabilized and all that jazz. I had three broken ribs and heavy bruising just about everywhere. My cranium got cracked good - in two places, actually - and I had swelling just about everywhere swelling was possible. The doctors feared permanent brain damage for a while, as well as permanent blindness. I was in surgery for hours and hours, and comatose for nearly five weeks. They tell me I was very lucky. 

I turn over another page and oh, look, there's your freakin' _BRAINS_ , Kowalski! Crime scene photos, and reference photos of my injuries. This brings a bigger reaction from me, because there's one thing to know that this-and-that happened to you when you can't remember a thing of it, but it's a whole different ballgame to see pictures, to see _yourself_ , looking like that. As it is, I'm nearly unrecognizable in most of them. The first few show a hastily snapped picture of me on a stretcher. Bruised face. Both eyes swollen, the right one the worst, and the skin around all purple and red. I have dried blood under my nose and around my mouth, and my hair is all red-brown-black with the stuff. The paramedics have me strapped to a backboard, collar around my neck and a special plastic thing secured around my head. To keep it from even jostling the slightest bit, I guess. Handy when you're transporting a guy with _two_ fucking serious _fractures_ in his skull! And, oh _God_ , I'm about to freak _again_. 

A hand settles on my shoulder, the touch warm through the flimsy material of the hospital gown, and I turn my head to meet Fraser's eye. Holy God, what a nightmare I must look like! Fading bruises, big-ass bandage around most of my head, and where there's no bandage present, you can see they shaved me. Stitches to the upper lip, stitches to my cheek, and almost about to freak out over a memory I don't even _have_?! That thought, combined with the silent comfort he's offering me, is enough to make me smile a little, and I manage to focus on my breathing. Fraser always wants me to focus on my breathing. And I hate to admit it, but it helps. 

When I've calmed down a little, he leans over to look at the rest of the pictures with me. The next pictures show the crime scene; bullet holes everywhere, what seems like hundreds of shell casings on the floor, overturned furniture, and a pool of blood where I'd been lying. Then there are the reference shots from the hospital, and in these I look slightly better, but only slightly. I'm not covered in dried blood anymore, but it makes my bruises show all that much better. They're a deeper purple here, spotted with black and yellow. There are shots of my chest, back and arms as well, and in one of the bruises I can actually see the shape of a shoe. Wow. My eyebrows go upward a little at that. I glance over and only now notice that Fraser actually looks worse than I do. He's gone ghostly pale, and now that I've noticed, I can hear him breathing kinda heavily and shaky. 

"You okay?" I ask, once again reminded that all this has gotta be pretty rough on him, too. I mean, I have it pretty easy, all things considered. Yeah, okay, it sucks not remembering who I am, what I'm like ("Whaddaya mean I have a temper?!"), what my life has been like up till now ("I was _married_?!") and shit like that. But it's not like I'm left with any major trauma. At least not yet. The doctors are still waiting to see if my memory will return. 

But this guy... Fraser had to leave me behind, thinking I was dead. He sat by my side every damn day for five weeks, waiting for me to wake up, long after they took the tube out of my throat, long after I was breathing fine on my own, long after my comatose state was _habit_ to my other friends. I guess that's what partnership's all about; that extra sacrifice. 

Fraser looks at me, looks right into my eyes, and starts to say he's fine, then he seems to change his mind and slowly sits back in his chair. 

"I'm... afraid I find the situation somewhat distressing," he says finally, looking out the window, and he may use as big words he'd like, but he's not fooling me. I hear the tight tone of his voice and see the fine tremor in his hands. 

"Yeah, no shit," I tell him. I don't know if we were _talking_ -kinda close, if we're that kinda people, but I do my best anyway. "Listen, I know this must be tough. But none of this is your fault, you know? And I mean, it's not like I remember being beaten and stuff. To me, it's more like being told a story. Like it was someone else." 

He looks down then, and for a second he looks like maybe he's the one who should be getting painkillers through an IV, 'cause the guy is _suffering_. 

"I should never have left you," he says quietly, and that ticks me off. 

Some parts of my brain may have been set back to scratch, but I still know how to use the damn thing. Grabbing a photograph from the file, I thrust it at him. "Look at this!" I demand loudly, holding it up so he can see. It's a shot of the bar, bullet holes lining the dark red walls like black stars on a red sky. "Look at it!" I demand again, and he looks. "Does this look like a safe place to be? They were shooting, Fraser, and if you'd have stayed, you'd have been in a hospital bed right next to me, or worse - dead!" 

His expression doesn't change, and I sigh deeply, putting the photograph back. 

"Look," I say, lowering my voice again. "You did the right thing, okay? Trust me on this one." The last bit gets me eye contact. 

"You're my partner, right? I mean, we were pretty close?" 

His face gets a funny look, and he swallows once, then nods. 

"So if you were dead, who would help me get through all this amnesia shit?" I ask. 

He doesn't reply, but this time his face speaks volumes. He's in a better mood the rest of the day. 

  


* * *

  


_June 23, 1998._

"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray." 

Fraser kept his chanting up until Ray spun on his heels, having made a right where Fraser had made a left. 

"Now, assuming that my theory is correct, we only have about three hours before we run any real risk of losing Anderson for good," he explained as they walked down the hallway. "The ticket I saw was for a plane that doesn't leave until 10pm tonight, but Anderson knows I saw the ticket and will most likely try to change his flight to the earliest available to him, which according to Francesca will leave O'Hare in exactly," he checked his watch, "three hours and fourteen minutes." 

Ray looked confused. "Yeah, well, okay, say this guy does what we think he'll do, and sticks to his plan of runnin' off to like Cuernevaca or something, wouldn't he expect us to be at the airport waiting for him?" 

"Ah, Ray," said Fraser, "but Anderson thinks we're both dead. He had obviously not taken Diefenbaker into account." Fraser gave his four-legged companion a proud look, and Diefebaker gave a yip from beside him. "And as such, we have the element of surprise." 

"Yeah, the wolf saves the day, got it. But we could've told someone else we were going to that building," Ray said, sounding a little annoyed. "We could've told the entire freakin' department." 

"Anderson went to great lengths to make our deaths look accidental, Ray. It stands to reason backup would have arrived long before he would have had the time to-" 

"-burn the place down, yadda, yadda, yadda, he knows we didn't tell anybody, okay, I get it," Ray continued, rolling his eyes. "You know, Fraser, just once in a while, I'd really like it if my stupid-ass cop brain could be right about something." 

"You're right about a lot of things, Ray," Fraser said. "I seem to recall a certain incident in a mini-sub? You've clearly proven your hunches to be pretty accurate a lot of the time, if I may say so myself." 

Ray looked scandalized at first, mock glaring at Fraser. "Was- was that...? The great Canadian admitting he was wrong?" Then sparing Fraser further embarrassment, he grinned. "You and I both know I'm here for the legalities and the muscle. You set 'em up, I knock 'em down, remember?" 

"You said that right after we first met," Fraser said, lips twitching as he remembered that first day. "Of course, I wasn't aware of the fact that you meant it quite so literally, and certainly not that this would also apply to the elderly trying to cross the street." 

"Hey!" Ray said as they exited the police station, " _once_ that happened, and it was an accident. The road was icy, and I slipped!" 

"Understood, Ray," Fraser said in his most innocent tone. 

"God, I hate you," Ray said, but the laughter in his voice betrayed his words. "You're a freak and you're annoying." 

Fraser just smiled at him as they got into the car, and repeated, "Understood." 

  


* * *

  


I move back into my apartment about two months after I woke up in the hospital. I spent a couple of weeks there, and then a few at this recovery center they had going, but it was driving me nuts. And I kinda needed this. With my memory still shot to hell, I need more than just pictures and collectibles and knick-knacks brought to me by family and friends to jostle my mind a little. My parents offered to come help, but I declined. It had been weird as hell seeing them in the hospital, with Mom crying and hugging me, and Dad looking grim - and the only thought in my head had been "Who the hell _are_ these people?!" My ex-wife Stella (and it's good to know my dad wasn't alone in giving his kid a bad name) didn't offer too much info, and I didn't ask. My parents have been weird as hell, but she was weirder. She was pretty, sure, but she kept looking at me like she expected me to at _least_ remember _her_ , to at _least_ remember the wonderful thing we had together. 

I had to tell her that sorry, I didn't, and my mind went "Couldn't have been _that_ wonderful, 'cause we _are_ divorced after all." 

The past weeks had been crazy, due to doctors and tests and stitches that needed to be removed and bandages that needed to be changed, and friends coming to visit, and oh yeah, _I have no memory_! That thought alone is enough to drive me nuts sometimes. What if my memory never comes back? The doctors just don't know. But, anyway, in between all this shit, I was pretty frazzled and I think Fraser's quiet presence was the only thing keeping me together. We'd have conversations about our past together, the cases we solved, funny little stories about things that happened to us. He'd tell me about Dief, and later introduced us after I was moved to the center and he could bring him alone. I got to see the uniform on him in person, as he started wearing it more and more. He told me what he knew about me matter-of-factly ("You gave my boss the somewhat crude name of `The Ice Queen' once") and without breaking down into tears or decorating the truth like my mom ("Oh, you were _always_ such a _nice_ boy, Stanley!"), and he told me weird stories about his life in Canada. 

As I got better, his duties at the Consulate apparently rose in priority, because he rarely stayed with me the entire day, but I'm pretty sure that every free moment he had, he spent at the center. When I asked Fraser to help me move back into my apartment, he came along gladly. He quietly drove me home from the center, helped me unpack (actually, more like unpacked _for_ me) without making a big fuss, and showed me around the place. And how weird was _that_ , getting a tour of my own apartment? The apartment was neat, and it kinda surprised me, 'cause I don't feel like an overly neat person. Maybe I used to be though? Sadly, the apartment didn't stir any memories in me, but I told myself it was what I'd expected, and continued to look around. Bicycle on the wall. Neon clock. Basically your average bachelor-pad, where nothing really matches. I apparently also had a turtle, which my landlady had been nice enough to keep while I was gone. 

"Funny," I comment, sitting down on the couch and stroking a hand over the blanket that lay in the corner, perfectly folded. 

"What is?" Fraser asks from the kitchen, turning to look at me over the counter. 

"This place," I say, gesturing vaguely around me. "It's neat. I didn't know I was neat." 

Fraser reddens a little, but only a little, tugs once at the collar of his uniform and strokes one thumb over his eyebrow. 

"I, uh... took the liberty of tidying up a bit while you were recovering." 

I blink. 

"How'd you get in?" 

There goes the thumb again. 

"You gave me a key," he explains, coming around the kitchen counter and standing by the edge of the couch. "For emergencies, really, but as it was, I found it prudent to-" 

"Fraser," I say quickly, cutting him off before he can go off into one of his big words-speeches. "It's okay. I really appreciate it." I throw in a smile to calm him down, and it seems to do the trick. He gives me a quick smile back, then goes back to unpacking the various gifts I received while still in the center. 

I watch him as he works, pulling books and magazines out of my bags, and putting them away; books into the shelves by the TV, magazines on the coffee table. A couple of coffee cups, one with "Kiss the cop!" written on it goes in the cupboard in the kitchen, the collection of get well-cards in a small basket in one of the bookshelves. He pulls out the stuffed teddy bear Francesca brought with her once, and for a second looks as if he doesn't know what to do with it, but then walks over and sets it in the chair across from the couch. 

Diefenbaker, who'd come along for the move ("He strongly feels he would be of invaluable help, Ray."), has been resting quietly near the door, but now he gets to his feet and trots over to me, nudging my hand with his snout. I move my hand into his fur and scratch his ear. When Dief has decided he's had enough scratching, he lies down at my feet, just about the time Fraser comes out of the bedroom and proclaims himself done unpacking. 

"Greatness," I tell him without really looking at him. "Come sit down and kick back. Have a beer or something. We'll see if there's anything on TV." 

When a few moments pass without a reply, I turn my head to look at him. He's frozen on the spot, a few steps from my bedroom door, looking ghostly pale again. 

"Fraser?" I ask. I'm kinda worried now. It's one of the first things I picked up on. When the Mountie goes all pale and frozen, something's queer. "What, you don't drink beer or something?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood. 

That seems to jostle him a little, and he clears his throat and comes to sit down next to me on the couch. "No, actually, I don't," he says. "But it's just... You used to say that, Ray." 

I'm confused for a bit, but his face is all serious. 

"Greatness," he explains, and I get it. 

"Ah. Oh. Well." 

I have no idea what to say, 'cause I honestly can't really remember anything, and I definitely do not wanna get Fraser's hopes up. 

"I don't," I start, "I don't... I don't..." 

Luckily Fraser's a bright guy, and he gets it right away. He first looks disappointed, and then he gets that unreadable face again, the one I haven't deciphered yet. It's the one I figure either is just weird, or means something _really_ big. And if it's the latter, I hope he'll tell me eventually. Just as he's about to open his mouth, there's a knock on the door, and I groan, hanging my head. 

"I can't take any more pitying well-wishers," I tell Fraser as he stands up to open. 

"I don't think it is," he replies, and I hear the door open. "Ah, Lieutenant." 

"Constable." 

I raise my head and see that it's Welsh, walking into the apartment with a nod to Fraser, and then turning to smile at me. "Kowalski. How is your head?" 

"Still there, and still running on empty," I say, standing up to greet him. My body doesn't protest the movement anymore, aside from some general stiffness from lying down so much. He shakes my hand firmly, and I like it. Welsh seems like a good man, judging from the little I've seen of him. He's like Fraser, he doesn't coddle me or baby me, lets me grit my teeth and push on, but at the same time he'll stop me when I _really_ need to be stopped. Yeah. Welsh seems like a good man. 

"I came by to talk to you about Vecchio," he says, sitting down in the chair across me. I sit down again just as he reaches back and pulls out the teddy bear, shakes his head once, then deposits it onto the table. "You already know you were undercover for this guy, right?" 

"Ahem," says Fraser quietly, so quietly that we almost miss it. "I think I'll take Dief out for a walk while you brief Ray, Lieutenant." 

Welsh nods his okay, and we watch as he puts on his hat, motions Diefenbaker out the door, then walks out himself, door closing behind him with a quiet _snick_. 

"As you know," Welsh presses on, and I decide that yeah, Welsh is definitely a good man, who knows when to be polite, and when to get down to business, "the real Ray Vecchio was deep undercover with the mob, right? Of course the Feds had to pull him out after what happened to you, and it all went down smoothly, so he's in the free and clear. However, the stint paid off well even though he was pulled early, so he's getting some kind of big promotion, and he's not coming back to the district. And that means that I have an opening I need to fill." 

He's looking at me all proud, like he's just served me the entire fucking universe on a gold platter and told me to pick which solar system I wanted to rule. 

I just blink stupidly at him. 

"Lieutenant, I have _amnesia_ ," I say clearly. God, do I have to spell it out? "I doubt any judge will convict a criminal brought in by a guy who can't remember his Academy training." 

"I know you have amnesia, but all I'm saying is, it's an open spot if you want it." 

"I _can't_ fucking do my _job_!" I'm angry now, and almost yelling. "I can't _remember_ anything!" 

But Welsh ain't biting. He just touches one thumb to his nose and says, "Not now you can't, but there are no guarantees this amnesia thing is forever." 

"Yeah? Nothing says it ain't, either," I shoot right back at him. 

He falls silent then, and we sit there for a second, before I give myself a mental beating. The guy just offered me my job back, but this time as me and not someone else, and I'm pretty sure it must have been tough to make _that_ happen. I'm not sure how the big shots run business, but I'm pretty sure no self-respecting Chief would have willingly accepted a transfer of a Detective, who's currently got freakin' amnesia and _may_ or _may not_ come back. 

"I appreciate the offer," I finally tell him, but Welsh just shrugs it off. 

"Don't mention it. Just remember the offer's still there should you wish to take me up on it in the future." He stands up. "I just felt like telling you in person. Also, I wanted to see how you were settling in." 

"I'm fine," I say with a little shrug as I too stand up and walk him to the door. "It's just... surreal. But no freaking out, and as long as I have no memory, I have no traumas either, and that's gotta count for somethin' right?" 

He almost looks sad for a moment, but I must have imagined it. 

"Yeah," he says gruffly. 

We make a little small talk, the usual bullshit. I'm actually happy as a clam that he came to see me, because he's one of the few people who apparently doesn't treat me any different since I lost my memory. A lot of people wanna do the whole pity-thing, the "Aww, poor you!"-thing, but that got old after the first day. I asked Fraser about it once, and he told me that Welsh was pretty much the same as he'd always been. Gave me a serious happy, that one. And speaking of Fraser... 

"Hey, can I ask you a question?" I ask just as he reaches for the doorknob. 

"Sure, Detective." 

"Is Fraser always this...." and I trail off as I search for the right word. 

"Strange? Polite? Annoying? Yes," Welsh says all in a rush. 

"No, that's not it. I guess quiet's the word I'm looking for," I say, because I really can't think of anything else to describe his behavior. "He's... quiet. Even when he's yapping on some crazy story about caribou and ice crevasses, he's... quiet." 

Welsh seems to mull this over for a minute, before nodding a little. "Yeah, I see what you mean. And no, he didn't use to be so quiet, but the past weeks have been rough on him." 

I shrug a little. "Yeah, I guess... I mean, I know that. But I just can't shake the feeling he's hidin' something from me, you know?" 

Welsh gives me a meaningful look. "He thought you were dead, Detective. A lot of people did when they came to the scene. But he was there when you went down, and he thought you were dead, and he was forced to either leave or end up as a living impersonation of Swiss cheese." 

He looks away for just a second, then raises his hand to poke a finger lightly in my chest, and once again I have to hide my pleasure over not being treated like spun glass. 

"Let me tell you something. Benton Fraser is one of the most honorable men to ever walk this earth, and he would protect you with his life. But he also has a martyr complex like no other. It's just how he _is_. So if he's a little quiet, if he's a little withdrawn, then hell, I'm not gonna _scold_ him for it, but the problem is, you can bet everything you own that he thinks all this is _his_ fault. And if I know Fraser like I think I do, there isn't a snowball's chance in hell he's ever gonna come out and share _that_ little piece of information on his own." 

I don't know what to say to that. 

After Welsh has left, I get a glass of water and sit down to let his words sink in. I guess this thing really made an impact on Fraser. And in that moment, I hate my amnesia more than ever before, because it means I just can't connect with Fraser on this one like I must have been able to before. I'm still stuck on surreal, far as the attack goes. I honestly don't feel much on the subject, largely because I simply can't _remember_! But it must have been real tough on Fraser, yeah... I realize that he never really smiles. Oh, okay, so he smiles, but not like at the hospital. I remember waking up, and the first thing I saw was him and that huge fuckin' smile of his. I've never seen that smile again. Now, all the smiles are tight-lipped and not even near the size of the one he gave me in the hospital. My insides ache for the guy, 'cause he's been a great friend through all this, and all he got to show for it is a whole shit-load of guilt. And, yeah, I know we were pretty close, and right from the start I did feel the familiarity of a long friendship, so he shouldn't be carrying around all this guilt and shit. 

I mean, there is no way the gunfight was his fault, there is no way he would've been able to stop the big guy who chucked him across the room like a toothpick, without either some serious help or a serious plan. In fact, he probably saved my life by bolting out of there and getting back-up, spreading the two magical words: " _Officer down._ " Those words are like... the start shot in a marathon of ass-kicking, involving every cop within radio range, district or not. Yeah. Fraser probably saved my life. 

Just then the door opens and Fraser and Dief walk in. 

"Has Lieutenant Welsh left?" he asks and I nod. 

At that point my stomach growls, and I'm reminded that the past weeks have consisted of mostly hospital food and stale junk-food brought by friends as they came to visit. I'm desperate for real food. 

"Want some dinner?" I ask him, smiling and hoping he'll say yes. I may not be able to remove his sense of guilt with a snap of my fingers, but I _can_ make sure he knows I'm not upset with him. 

"Yes, dinner would be lovely, Ray," Fraser says, going to the kitchen and starting to poke around my fridge and cupboards, the former of which Fraser has been Canadian enough to fill up while I was gone. Probably did it the same day he cleaned up my place. "Sit," Fraser insists. "You should relax. I'll get it." 

I watch him for a few seconds, then say, "You know none of this is your fault, right? You did the only thing you could do, you did the right thing." 

He freezes with his back to me for a moment, and then I hear him say, "Yes, Ray. I know." 

I don't believe him for a second, but it's the best I'm gonna get right now, I can tell. I lean back against the cushions in the couch and close my eyes, for the moment perfectly content with listening to Fraser strolling around my kitchen and considering our dinner options. 

He finally settles for Pasta Bolognese, and it's the best meal I've had in my life. 

  


* * *

  


_March 7, 1999._

Fraser wasn't at all comfortable. Not at all. The mere thought of sitting through another mindless movie with sound so loud his ears physically hurt, was not an appealing one. But Ray had begged and pleaded, because " _It'll be great_ ," and " _I really, really, really wanna see this movie_ ," and " _It's no fun without you_!" And Fraser just didn't know how to say no to Ray. 

As Ray handed the usher their tickets and led the way into the theater, Fraser sighed deeply and wished he'd at least brought earplugs to muffle the sound so he maybe would be able to actually _catch_ some of the movie they were there to see. 

"Oh, hey, I got something for ya," Ray said, shifting the bucket of popcorn and digging deep in the pockets of his jeans. "Here you go." 

Plunking a pair of earplugs into Fraser's hand, Ray winked at him, then went to find their seats. 

  


* * *

  


"You know, Ray," Fraser says one day. "I spoke with Ray Vecchio the other night - the real Ray Vecchio - and he informed me there was an apartment available for rent in the building across the street." 

I dragged my eyes away from the hockey game. "Yeah?" 

Fraser nodded. "A most affordable one, too, but I felt I should ask you first." 

I frowned. "Why would you ask me first? I think it's great, get you out of the Consulate and all." 

"Well, we'd practically be neighbors, and I wouldn't want you to think I'm imposing on you." 

That got a chuckle out of me. 

"Fraser, you've been spending close to your every waking second with me. Why would it matter whether you spend two minutes walking home or forty?" 

He reddened a little and cracked his neck. 

"I, uh, I wasn't trying to-" 

"I know," I say. 

"-because I'm aware that you're fully capable of taking care-" 

"I know, Frase." 

"-and if you're feeling a bit-" 

"I know!" I say, a bit louder than I meant to, but I take the bite out of my words with a smile. 

"I know you're not trying to baby me, Fraser. And I really appreciate all you've done for me, even if it's just watching a hockey game with me." 

"Yes, well," and the corner of his mouth twitches a little, "I felt obligated to make sure the Leafs got their revenge on the Hawks after the utter fiasco last time." 

Dief whines from his spot on the floor. 

"Well, it's true," Fraser tells him matter-of-factly. "You know I'm usually not one to speak ill of our team, but honestly, Diefenbaker - I think criticism should be given where it is due." 

I chuckle and gently punch his arm. 

"Leafs suck," I tell him. "Were you always such a freak?" 

The smile vanishes from his face in an instant and he gets that unreadable expression again. It's been driving me nuts these past months, and for the most part I'm figuring it means I reminded him of something I used to say or do before all this. 

"Yes, Ray," he says deadpan, and I'm no longer sure if he's joking or being serious. "Always." 

  


* * *

  


_March 7, 1999._

"Thank you kindly for the ear plugs," Fraser said later on, during their evening walk with Diefenbaker. "It was a generous thought." 

Ray gave him a shy grin, then looked down and shuffled his feet along. "Well, you mentioned last time how you had trouble adjusting to the sound 'cause you were used to silence, and I try to be considerate, you know?" 

"I know," Fraser replied, touched that Ray would remember that little detail from their conversation a couple of days earlier, and their arms bumped each other. 

Ray looked up again and met Fraser's eyes for a second, gave him another little wink, and then slung his arm around Fraser's shoulders. They didn't speak any more. 

  


* * *

  


Diefenbaker is barking and growling at me, and I desperately want him gone, out of the way. _Stupid dog, stupid dog..._

The flash of memory takes me by surprise, and I stumble backwards, knocking a plate off the kitchen counter in the process. The plate lays shattered next to my feet, and I lean hard on the counter, trying to focus on my breathing. In, out, slow, calm, in, out... 

Once I've calmed down, I focus on the memory, on what triggered it. In my mind, Diefenbaker's growls still echo. 

"This is stupid," I mutter to myself. 

I've almost gotten used to this by now. The memories have slowly started to return. Sometimes the flashback will take me completely by surprise, startling me and practically making me sick to my stomach. Especially if it's something unpleasant, like the face of a victim in a case we were working, or the smell of a body down in the morgue. Sometimes it's not even images. Sometimes it's just things I realize, like how I one day suddenly _knew_ that I almost had my ear bitten off once. Other times it's a feeling or emotion or a sensation. Like, I remember how I felt when I was in love with Stella, and I remember how I felt when I realized I _wasn't_ anymore. Sometimes one memory will trigger a series of others too, going off like a machine gun, _blam-blam-blam_ , no time to prepare for the next, it's already slamming into me. And sometimes I'll be _right_ at the edge of it, and I'll have to poke and prod and pry at my brain so it'll spit the memory out. 

The first time I remembered something, was on our way to see a movie. A black Mustang had driven by and I was just grinning and thinking of my own GTO, when I suddenly got hit with this crystal clear picture of me and Fraser _in_ the car. Nothing special, I was driving, and we were looking for someone, and Fraser was saying something about a case. I was practically hyperventilating myself to death, and Fraser had punched in both 9 and 1 on my cell phone before I managed to tell him I was okay. He still took me to see my doctor, though. He seems pleased with the progress, and I didn't know how to feel about that. 

On one hand, it gave me hope. On the other hand, that hope sucks, because I keep hoping for these moments, I keep hoping to remember more, to remember my life, to remember _me_. And what if I never get it all back? 

Still, the glimpses of my life I _have_ gotten back have made a few things better. I'm finally cleared to drive again, and didn't _that_ take long to sort out? If all goes well, I'll start a desk job for Welsh within a few weeks - nothing big, just pushin' paper and reports and shit, but it beats sitting around the house all day, collecting insurance money and waiting for Fraser to get off work so he can come keep me company. Besides, maybe in the future I can get back out on the streets? Half of the shit I remember has something to do with my career, so I figure I liked being a cop most of the time. I mean, it's pretty clear I put a lot of effort into the job, at least. 

I also got back a lot of memories about Stella - if it doesn't involve cases and Fraser, you can be damn sure it involves Stella. She was everything to me, it seems. I don't know about _that_ anymore. I haven't really spoken to her a great deal, not even after my memories started to come back, and from what I hear, she's shacking up with the real Ray Vecchio these days. Good for her. I think Fraser expected me to have some kind of reaction when he broke _that_ news to me, but honestly? I don't care much. The memory of finally being over Stella came back to me _before_ the memory of actually loving her, and I guess that should tell ya something. I can't remember our wedding, but I can remember the feeling of suddenly realizing that _holy shit_ , I am someone's _husband_! I can also remember dancing with her once, but I don't know where we were. Someplace with mirrors, at least. Fraser told me I used to like to dance. I don't think I like dancing anymore, I dunno. There's a lot of stuff I used to like which I just don't feel like doing anymore. 

There's a knock on the door, and I know it's Fraser. He's the only one who knocks that softly. It's like he wants to say he's sorry to interrupt, even if he isn't. I straighten up and walk to the door, carefully stepping around the broken plate. 

"Hey Frase, c'mon in," I say, letting him in, and then turning to find something to get rid of the broken plate with. Diefenbaker moves past me and is on the couch in an instant. 

"Ray," he says in greeting, giving Diefenbaker a dirty look that the wolf pointedly ignores. I grin. Smart wolf. 

Fraser's told me a gazillion stories about our past together, but it's not all easy to remember. I mean, one thing is living it, but it's completely different to hear a story without feeling a connection to it as it's told. It could've been anybody, and that makes it harder to remember. I do remember the story of Diefenbaker, how they met and how Dief later saved Fraser's life and lost his hearing in the process. It's a good story. 

Then Fraser sees the plate on the floor and frowns. 

"What happened?" 

Before I can even explain, he's guessed it. 

"Did you remember more?" he asks, and now he gets all excited and anxious at once. "Ray, what did you remember?" 

"Calm down," I say, as I clean up the mess. "It was nothing big, I think. I was looking at him," and I nod towards Diefenbaker, "sorta like, standing over him, and he was pissing me off. Don't know why, though." 

Fraser's face sorta falls a little and I see something strange in his eyes, just for a second, then he says "Ah," and takes off his hat. 

"You know, Ray, there was the incident where you couldn't leave the Consulate." 

I think hard and yeah, I remember that story. I can't remember it actually happening, but I remember Fraser telling me about it. 

"Diefenbaker prevented you from slipping out while I was occupied," he continues. "Maybe that's what you remember? I found you in the hallway, scolding him for not letting you pass." 

I study his face for a moment, because I know I saw an expression there. Something's definitely queer. For a moment I consider pushing, asking what's wrong, what's up with him, but I don't. Fraser's kinda weird around me, but I know he's always been a little off compared to the rest of my friends, so mostly I don't think about it. Lately, though, as my memories have started to come back, he's been acting... well, weirder than usual. It almost seems like he gets a little more disappointed every time I remember something new, but that can't be it. Fraser's not the kinda guy who'd wish misery on me, and he knows as well as anybody else that I don't like being treated like a retard. And the more I remember, the more people are starting to treat me like normal. If anything, I'd have thought he'd be happy for me. 

"Yeah," I tell him, "the Consulate, that's right. That's it." 

  


* * *

  


_March 15, 1999._

Fraser hated fighting with Ray. 

The anger was still in him, but it had faded enough for the regret to set in, and he sighed deeply. Diefenbaker gave a soft whine from the floor, and Fraser nodded slowly. 

"I know, Dief. I know." 

Diefenbaker whined again and looked accusingly at him. 

"Well, it's not like I can apologize when he's not even here!" 

Diefenbaker snorted. 

"Oh, well, what do you know about it?" Fraser asked irritably. "If he wanted to talk to me, he wouldn't have left, so I suspect calling him on his cell will only result in him hanging up on me anyway!" 

Diefenbaker growled a little and put his head down on his paws. 

Fraser slumped back in his seat on the couch and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I'll deal with is when he comes back," he told the wolf and then ignored any further objections Diefenbaker might have had. 

It wasn't like it had been his fault either! Fraser was perfectly sure the whole fight could have been avoided if Ray had been able to control his temper. But then again, Ray controlling his temper was like someone trying to stop a moving freight train with their bare hands. And when Ray got angry and decided to take that anger out on Fraser, it was simply a matter of time before Fraser got angry right back at him, because even Fraser had his limits. 

It had been a hard case involving the shooting of a teenager, and when they'd finally arrested the boy's best friend for the act, Ray had reacted strongly. It was most definitely an accident, just two boys having found a gun and foolishly decided to play around with it. But when one of them got shot, the friend had then tried covering it up, and that didn't bode well for him. Ray had wanted to defend him, had wanted to talk to Stella and see if they could work out something for him, a deal, an agreement, anything. But the deceased's parents had been relentless, demanding justice of the strictest kind, for the murder of their son. 

When Ray realized it was finally all out of their hands, he'd gone nuts. 

"It's not _right_!" he'd screamed at Fraser. "It's not _right_ , because it was an accident, and he's just seventeen, just a stupid, scared _kid_!" 

"That may well be," Fraser had said, trying to calm Ray down. "But he did pull the trigger, and he did try to dispose of the body. What happens to him now isn't up to us, Ray, it's for a jury to decide." 

Ray had instantly turned his anger towards Fraser, calling him all sorts of nasty things. Fraser wasn't too fazed, because it was what Ray did when he was hurt and angry; he lashed out. But then Ray had attacked his choice of career, telling him he was no good as a Mountie, because what did he do, anyway? Sort paperclips at the Consulate, and oh yeah, there was a big and important job! 

Fraser's usually solid patience had snapped then, and they'd gone off into a huge shouting contest about the importance of their jobs, their partnership and themselves, and a lot of ugly things had been said. Finally Ray ended it by storming out and slamming the door so hard the walls shook. 

Fraser could do nothing but wait for him to cool down and eventually return. 

"You're right," he finally told Diefenbaker as the last traces of anger left him. "I shouldn't have told him he was out of control. He's got a temper, yes, and he pushes constantly at every border and boundary, that is true. But he's never out of control. That was a horrible thing for me to say." 

Diefenbaker seemed to agree. 

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have called you a useless boy scout," Ray said from behind him, and Fraser was on his feet in a second, turning. Ray was standing in the doorway, looking well and thoroughly embarrassed. "You're not a useless boy scout. You're my partner. You got my back out there every single day. And you're my friend, the best..." he trailed off and blushed a little. 

"I'm sorry, Frase. I was way out of line, before." 

"As was I," Fraser said, nodding. "We both said a lot of things that I think I can safely say we both regret saying." 

Ray's lips twitched. "I dare you to say that sentence ten times, really, really fast." 

The small joke brought a smile to Fraser's own lips. 

"I'm sorry, Ray." 

Ray just looked at him for a moment, then returned the smile. 

"I know," he said. "Me too." 

  


**_PART TWO: MOVING FORWARDS_**

  


Fraser doesn't speak as he unlocks his front door - two regular locks and a safety lock up in the corner - and when he gets them all unlocked and holds the door open for me, I give him a grin as I step past him and in. 

We've been eating out; Fraser had this new place he wanted to show me ("Actually, we've been there before, but I suppose it'll be new to you all over again, Ray.") and it had been a good night with good food, even though some of it was pretty weird ("What the fuck is _gjetost_?"), but according to Fraser I'd had it before and liked it. He was right, I did like it. Afterwards, I'd asked to see his apartment, because he'd been living there for almost four weeks now, but I haven't seen it before now. Fraser isn't the invite-you-over-for-beer-on-a-whim kinda guy, and we always spent our time together either at my place, or out. Out eating, seeing movies, just taking walks with Dief, or doing weird shit like going down to the park and watch the yoga class ("It's really quite fascinating to watch, Ray.") that sometimes was held outdoors there. I mean... yoga. What the fuck? Who the hell goes down to the park to _watch_ old people and hippie-wannabes do yoga - _outdoors_ , in freakin' September? 

Fraser does, obviously. After we were done watching the freak show today, I asked him if I could see his new place. At first he was weirdly reluctant ("It's not neat enough, Ray, and it's not very big, and I don't have a television set..."), so I of course pushed harder. I mean, something's definitely up with the guy, and I wanna to know what! I figured maybe if I got him on his own turf, he'd open up a little. 

The apartment's not exactly cluttered, I muse as I look around. Fraser closes the door, then takes my jacket and hangs it in a small closet right next to the entrance. His uniform jacket goes on a hanger on the wall; he was wearing his brown uniform today. The living room is pretty small, but it's okay 'cause it's not like there's a lot of furniture here to take up the space. A battered couch sits in one end of the room, a small kitchen table with a single chair sits in the other, and the wall between is lined with bookshelves. A half-wall separates the living room from what I suppose is the bedroom, if you can even call it that. The bed is more like a little cot, and it fills almost the entire space behind the half-wall. What space is left is taken by a tall closet where I guess he keeps his clothes. 

On the wall, where the kitchen table stands, there's a door that leads into a little kitchen. Sink, oven, cupboard, fridge, and _hey_ , Fraser's got a microwave. I tease him about it, making _ooo_ , _ooo_ -sounds for a second, before I move back to the living room. Another door leads to a little bathroom, which is in surprisingly good shape. Clean, white tiles that look new, shower in the corner that looks new, sink that looks new, and a toilet that is practically sparkling. I raise my eyebrows at that. I didn't think toilets that clean existed anywhere except in places like the White House. 

"The bathroom was in rather bad shape," Fraser explains, "and when I realized I had to replace a lot of the pipes, I figured I might as well do the whole room. My landlord actually took some of my rent off for that, since I was doing it with my own money. Besides, he can charge more for the place at a later time, now. He is really a quite nice old man, Ray, you should meet him someday." 

"It's nice," I tell him, and it is. It's tiny, and barely furnished, but it's very _Fraser_. 

"Would you like something to eat?" he asks and I nod and shrug. Sure, why not. He goes into the kitchen and sets about preparing something, while I snoop around some more. The bookshelves are only half-full with weird-ass books. Everything from crime novels, to dictionaries for languages I can't even pronounce, to - I snort - bad romance novels. A black and white picture sits on one shelf, showing I guess what's Fraser as a kid, with his mom and dad. Couldn't be anyone else. It's snowy and they're all wrapped up in fur parkas and big hats. Another memory tickles at my brain, and I shudder a little in surprise. 

"Hey Fraser," I say. "You got this picture for Christmas, didn't you?" 

His head pops out of the kitchen and now he's got that weird-ass look on his face again. 

"Yes. Why?" 

"Nothin', I just... I just kinda remembered, that's all. I mean, I can't remember you getting it, but I sorta... I just know you got this for Christmas." I give a little half-shrug and he disappears into the kitchen again. 

I let my finger glide along the spines of his books. I spot a book by Edgar Allan Poe, and a raven flashes through my mind. Intrigued, I pick it out and open it. It's a collection of poems, and I read a paragraph here and there, before closing it and moving to put it back. As I do, something - a piece of paper - flutters out from between the pages and lands on the floor by my feet. 

I frown. Something's queer. I can feel it in my gut. Fraser told me we used to disagree on that; he'd want to reason and I'd want to go off and follow a hunch. He had admitted I was often right, though. So I put the book back, then pick up the piece of paper that fell. 

It's a newspaper clipping of a photograph. A guy is being led away by the cops, and his face triggers something in my brain, but I can't quite catch it. I wince as I feel the beginnings of a headache. In the background, there are lots of police officers, and I recognize several from the station. Right over the guy's shoulder stands me and Fraser, somber looks on both our faces. I wish I had the rest of the article, not just the picture, so I could get a grip on what this was all about. The memory is teasing me, dancing _just_ out of reach. I concentrate hard, and feel myself grow angry. What was this about? This was something important, I _know_ it was! 

I look back at the picture. I'm looking like someone just walked over my grave, looking after the guy like he's just killed my entire family or something. Fraser's not looking at him, though, Fraser's looking at me. He's got one hand on my shoulder, looking seriously at me with... what, deep concern and... something else. My head hurts now, pounding hurt as I try to grasp the memory I _know_ is there! I'm looking at the guy, Fraser's looking at me, he's got a hand on my shoulder and sorta leaning in... 

The burst of memories hits me harder than anything ever before. I gasp loudly, stumble, fall on my ass, I'm choking, I can't breathe! From somewhere far away I can hear Fraser's hurried footsteps, Fraser's worried voice, but I can't focus. The clipping crumbles in my hand as it curls into a fist and I'm desperately reaching out for something, anything to grab onto, cling tight to for the ride, because _holy shit_! 

  


* * *

  


_December 2, 1998._

Ray's body was completely different from Fraser's. Ray's body was wiry and lean and not the same shade of pale as Fraser. He had a tiny hint of chest hair, and pale nipples. He had a flat stomach if you looked directly at it, and hints of a six-pack if you looked at it from the side and let the light create shadows. His arms were lean, but he had muscles. And his hands were rough, not as rough as a true worker's hands, but you could tell he hadn't been riding a desk in life. He had a very faint scar on the back of his right hand, right where his thumb met his palm ("Slide bite, I was in the Academy and it was the first time I fired a semiautomatic."), and on his right middle finger he had another scar ("Worst paper-cut of my _life_!"). 

His upper body had two scars from bullet holes, one just below his ribs on the left side, and one in the shoulder on the right ("That one hurt like hell!"). He had a few random scars from your usual odds and ends; knife fights, childhood accidents and so forth. His left ear had marks from where Kuzma nearly bit it off, and below those marks were the faint puncture wound of a long-ago closed-up piercing. 

His legs were long and muscled and when Fraser touched his thigh, a shiver ran through the other man. Ray's cock was perfectly sculpted, not too long and not too thick, and backed by a wisp of blonde hair. 

Fraser was so different than him, smoother, a different shade of pale, more scars, not as lean, and with dark instead of blonde hair. Yet, his body fit perfectly under Fraser's, knees to knees, chest to chest and cock to cock. 

The kisses were slow, sloppy, long. Fraser wanted them to never stop. He felt his partner's arms wrap themselves around him, and Fraser moaned into Ray's mouth as they ground into each other, first rubbing and then moving to thrust in sync. The rhythm found itself as naturally as anything they ever did. Fraser could feel himself leaking, slicking the way, could feel the hot skin on hot skin, feel the light, tentative kisses that brushed along his jaw-line. When Fraser pulled back to look into Ray's eyes, the air rushed out and Fraser could do nothing but stare. 

Eyes of impossible blue and grey were firmly locked with Fraser's own as they continued to thrust and build their way to orgasm, and in those eyes, Fraser was certain that he saw everything the other man couldn't say with words. Ray lay bare and naked beneath him, not just in body, but in soul. Fraser saw his pain and his joy, and recognized the guilt and the shame and the love. Fraser wanted to kiss away the shadows, suck them in and swallow them away forever. Fraser thrust harder, feeling that hard cock against him, seeing Ray's mouth open to let a breathy little "oh" escape, and all Fraser could think was _I love you, I love you, I love you_. 

Ray came first. He arched his back, clung to Fraser like he was underwater and he was back on the Henry Allen and he was drowning all over again, and maybe he was? And then his cock was pulsing out searingly hot semen between their bodies as a whisper fell from his lips like a prayer; "Ben." 

The wetness, the heat, hearing his name, his first name, from those lush lips, it was all grabbing him, whisking him away in a sea of emotions and feelings. Fraser let himself go, tumbling over the edge with Ray's name on his own lips. 

_I never want to lose you._

  


* * *

  


"We were a couple," I breathe. 

I'm waiting for him to deny it, to confirm it, to say _anything_ at all, but he doesn't. He doesn't speak a word, just looks down on his toes with a pained expression on his face, and he might as well have painted a banner, because that's as good a confirmation as words. Holy _shit_ , we were a couple! 

My mind is reeling, my head is spinning. How could I not have known this, how could I _not_ have known this? 

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" I ask when I finally find my voice again, climbing to my feet. 

He's silent for another moment, then looks at me and shrugs a little, and I can see tears in his eyes now. Holy _shit_ , we were a _couple_! 

"Nobody else knew," he says quietly, and that statement hits me so fucking hard, and maybe standing up was a bad idea, because now I have to sit down again. 

I plunk my ass right down on his battered, old couch and try to form a coherent thought. I may never get up again. 

Nobody else knew. Fraser had to leave me for dead, watch me lie stretched out in a coma, and then had me wake up without any memory of our relationship, and he had nobody to tell and nobody to talk to. 

"Why?" I ask again. "Why didn't _you_ tell me? I thought we were _partners_ , Fraser, I thought you'd know you could trust me with this! How long? How long were we together? How did this happen? I thought I was _married_?!" The words stream from my mouth now, a waterfall of unanswered questions. 

He shifts nervously on his feet, and looks down again. I can see one tear making its way down the bridge of his nose and drip to the floor. He takes a deep breath as if to say something, then it suddenly changes to become this strange half-sob, and I'm torn between the urge to get over there and pull him into my arms, and bitch-slap his ass all over the place for not telling me. I do neither. I remain exactly where I am. There are no more sobs, and he looks at me with pain written all over his features. 

Then he walks over to his little cot and pulls out a cardboard box from beneath it. It has " _Stefano Transport_ " written on the side of it, I note absently. He carries it over to me, and then sits on the floor in front of me, putting the box between us. Inside, there are more pictures. Of the two of us, laughing together, standing together, sitting together. There is one Polaroid of Fraser. He's caught unaware, in civilian clothes, and his smile is unlike any I've ever seen. It's open and carefree and warm, and I'm reminded of the first thing I saw when I woke up in the hospital. A smile I've never seen again. There are more things. A crime novel with my handwriting on the inside of the cover; " _For Ben. Partners._ " Lube, and I'm too shell-shocked to even blush. A small plastic Mountie key ring, like the tourist shit you get at airports and stuff. A handcuffs key ring, and I wonder if we gave each other those, if we used them. A button that apparently held some kind of meaning. A dream catcher. A whole relationship stashed away in a cardboard box from Stefano Transport. 

"It was... this fall, in November," he begins, and he seems to regain his composure as he tells the story. "Though I'd... hoped... for far longer. So long, in fact, that I was starting to feel like I should perhaps look elsewhere. And when I did, you... you seemed jealous, Ray." 

I barely dare to breathe as I listen to him. November 15, 1998. That was the magical date when everything had changed, apparently. I'd been acting jealous around him and some lady involved in a case we were working, illegal gambling or something, and he'd confronted me a few days later. He wanted us to talk. Wanted to know my feelings. I guess I wasn't down with that whole talk-about-your-feelings thing that particular day. 

"You took it badly," is all he really says on the matter, and my heart aches even more for the guy. I get more flashes in my head. 

I hadn't taken it _badly_ , I had taken it far beyond _badly_. _Badly_ was a blip on the radar, what I'd done was clocked him good, screamed at him that I was not like that, not queer, not gay, and then kissed the bejeezus out of the guy. An unexpected stab of pain hits my chest as I recall the emotions that came with it. I was angry, confused, hurt, and deeply ashamed of myself. I felt like there was something wrong with me, I was broken, and I just wanted for someone to fix me. 

Guilt floods me, and I nod grimly. "I remember," I tell him. 

When he'd finally got me talking to him, more than two weeks later, all the fight had gone out of me and I'd nearly shot our entire partnership to hell. I'd nearly fucked up our duet beyond all repair. But I didn't, because he persisted, he didn't let me back out, and told me clearly that even if I was unable to be with him, we couldn't let it destroy our partnership. Lucky for him, I was weak that day, and I gave in willingly, surrendering to him like a drowning man to the sea. 

And then, as the next memory hits me, I understand why he didn't say anything to me. He'd brokenly told me, afterwards, how much my words hurt him. How he hated to see me in such pain, how much pain I caused him. He was fully prepared to work with me as professional as ever, even if I'd never come around, but he was so scared I was gonna see him as a true freak forever. He was scared that he was gonna disgust me, he was scared I would never wanna see him again. I understand now. He couldn't handle that rejection twice, because there were no guarantees I would come around a second time. 

He'd been to my apartment before I moved back home, not to clean, but to remove every trace of himself from there. Remove every trace of the life we were starting to build together. Taking what we had together and stuffing it away in a cardboard box beneath his bed. 

"I'm... not sure what to do about this," I manage. 

"You don't have to do anything," Fraser says quickly. "I understand fully if you do not wish to... pick up where we left off." 

"I didn't say that," I snap, and nearly fall over with surprise at my own words. _What?_

Fraser doesn't look hopeful, though. He just looks sad. 

"I mean it," I say again, and I'm once again surprised to find that _yes_ , I _do_ mean it. Hell, if I was gay before, no reason I'm not still. I don't know. I mean, I haven't really thought about _anyone_ that way since I lost my memory, I haven't even looked. 

Fraser still looks miserable, and he reaches into the box and comes out with the button I spotted earlier. Suddenly, I want to _know_ that button, want to know the meaning it held, and still holds to him. I want to know about _everything_ in that box, I realize. Fraser fingers the button absently, turning it over in his palm, and then turns to me to give me what I can only describe as a brave smile. 

"It's quite alright, Ray. I understand that your feelings on the matter have changed since your accident-" 

"It wasn't an accident, Fraser," I say, and for the first time I feel angry over the whole deal. It's a huge relief to finally feel _something_ as far as the attack goes, and I gladly give in to the anger. "It was some scumbag gang-banger who knocked me round and stole my fucking _life_ away! That's not a fucking accident, Fraser, that's violating me!" 

His eyes go wide, but his voice is still calm when he speaks, although his words tremble just a little. "I'm aware of that, Ray, I was there. But accidental or not, your views on our relationship has changed, and I realize that, and I apologize profoundly for having kept it a secret for as long as I did." He hesitates a little, and I recognize that pause. It's like when you're about to tell a lie, and you take just half a second to make sure you word yourself right, or it's all over. "However," he continues, and I know I'm right, "under the circumstances, I thought it best if I didn't distress you more than what was absolutely necessary, to avoid-" 

Bullshit. I know it's all bullshit. Fraser, the Mountie who jumps out of moving vehicles on a daily basis, was afraid. Afraid of getting his heart broken, most likely, though possibly also afraid I was gonna clock him one, because shit like that is never good for a partnership. 

He's still talking. 

"-the doctors, and until we knew more about whether your memory loss was permanent or not, I felt I was making the right choice-" 

"Fraser?" I interrupt him, and he immediately stops. 

"Ray?" 

"Shut up," I tell him, and then lean forward, grab his shoulders and kiss him. I really hadn't planned to, I really, really hadn't, but it just feels so damn right. And I guess that if I wasn't sure whether I really was gay before or not, I guess this answers it, because yeah, I'm into this! 

At first, Fraser freezes up like he's suddenly turned to stone or something, but I ain't giving up so easy. I never take my lips off his, and instead try to just let myself feel. Warm, soft lips. No stubble, not like me. I wonder if my stubble scratches him? His shoulders are strong under my hands, and I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Then it seems Fraser's finally getting with the program, gets that I'm not gonna let this go, and his arms come up around me. 

Damn, I guess he must have missed me a lot, because now he's kissing me like he's a starving man and I'm a freakin' restaurant! His tongue pushes its way into my mouth, and _fuck yeah_ , I'm _definitely_ into this. His tongue is moist and slick and warm, and strokes along mine, along the roof of my mouth, along my lips, along my teeth. His hands clutch at my back, and I push closer to him, crawling closer until I'm literally in his lap. He is _strong_ , is the first thing that springs to mind. I can feel his chest against mine, feel the muscles there, even with the clothes separating us. Strong arms hold me tightly, and I'm pretty sure that if he tried, Fraser would be able to squeeze every last breath out of my body. 

When we finally break the kiss to breathe, he's swallowing heavily, gulping down air, and he's nearly crying again. An elephant sits on my chest, making it somehow harder to breathe, and I'm almost feeling like crying here myself. I had no idea I'd be into this. I had no idea about _any_ of this. 

"God, Fraser," I breathe, "I feel like... I don't even know _what_ the fuck I feel like!" 

"I missed you," Fraser confesses. "I missed you so badly, and I know you've changed, I know you're not the same, but you're getting your memories back, and I saw how much it hurt you sometimes, not being able to remember anything, and I wanted to touch you, but you didn't know about _any_ of this!" 

He's babbling, I realize with a start. I didn't even know Mounties _could_ babble. So I shut him up with another kiss, and then we're falling over until we're both lying on the floor, kissing frantically. It's not enough, though, I want more. I didn't _know_ I wanted more, but now I know. I want more, I _need_ more. I cling to him and carefully thrust my hips against his, trying to make him understand what I want, and Fraser, bless him, isn't slow on the uptake. A moment later, I feel warm hands making their way up under my t-shirt and sweater, and I let him pull them up, breaking the kiss again to get them over my head. 

Fraser looks at me, and I've never seen this look on his face before. Or maybe I have and I just don't remember it yet. His eyes are heated and blank, and he's breathing heavy, chest heaving. Something in his eyes makes me think he's insecure, too, like he's afraid this is all a dream and I'll vanish in a puff of smoke any second now. I reach out to him again, touching his cheek and letting him know that I'm real, I'm here. I'm trying to let my actions speak here, 'cause I've suddenly lost my voice completely. I don't think I could get a single word out even if our lives depended on it. He closes his eyes with a shuddering breath and leans into the caress, then reaches out blindly and pulls me to him again. 

My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I'm deaf to everything else around me when I reach up with trembling hands to first slide the suspenders down his shoulders and then start unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn't say anything, he just lets me do it on my own, in my own time, and I'm grateful for that. A part of my brain is frantically searching for more memories of the two of us, because this is scary shit. I need something to hold on to, something to clue me in as to exactly what I'm gonna do here, how this feels. 

Finally I get both his shirt and undershirt off, and I stare at his chest. It's pale and sculpted and the absurd thought that he looks like one of them Greek statues springs to mind. Carefully, I reach out to touch, fingers brushing over his chest. He sucks in a harsh breath, and I meet his eyes. Then I put my hand fully on his skin, letting it drift and feel and take it all in. His skin is smooth and warm, and he is definitely muscled. He has a lot of scars on him, and it seems like his skin should change in texture where they are, but it doesn't, not much. When I run my fingers over them, his skin still feels smooth under my touch. His right arm has marks from what looks like shotgun pellets. There's what looks like an old knife wound on his stomach. He's got a weird scar on his right shoulder that doesn't look like a bullet. On his left wrists there are what could possibly be bite marks, which I guess makes sense. Fraser's probably dealt with a lot of wild animals in his life. There are several other small scars that I can't tell what is from. He's probably got more on his back. 

There is a small one up by his hairline, right below his ear, and he's got a barely visible one on his jaw. I keep running my fingers over his face, wanting to take in every last detail. A part of me hopes it will trigger more memories, but my mind is coming up blank. Fraser just lies still under my ministrations, letting me touch and feel. 

I let my hands roam down to his waist and then hesitate a moment before hooking my index finger into his pants. Like always, Fraser gets me, saves me from having to find my voice and ask. He doesn't even hesitate as he unbuttons and unzips the pants, shoving them down and out of the way along with his boxers. He's uncut, it my first thought. Then I give myself a mental shake, because _of course_ he's uncut, he was born in a freakin' barn in the middle of nowhere. Not all of Fraser's Canada-stories stick with me, but I remember that one. His cock is thick too, I note, and it stands erect against his stomach. It's strange to have come to this point, where I'm half-naked, and Fraser's _buck naked_ , and we're half-sitting, half-lying on his living room floor, because even if we could manage to move right now, there is _no way_ that little cot of his is gonna hold us both. Strange to be here with him, like this. Strange to know it isn't the first time, when it feels like it is. This wasn't what I figured the day had in store for me when I got out of bed this morning. 

"Ray," he says, voice breaking the silence. It sounds so loud I'm startled, and almost jump a little. "Can you take your jeans off?" 

Saying the words out loud makes the situation crash into me, and I frown as it gets harder to breathe. Before I have the time to panic, though, Fraser's there, pulling us both into a sitting position, and then he's kissing the life out of me. His arms go around me, thick arms, more muscled than mine, solid arms that are holding me and shielding me. 

"I've got you," he murmurs against my lips. "You don't have to, it's okay, it's okay." 

I'm tempted to take him up on the offer, because the thought of getting completely naked, completely naked _with Fraser_ , is a scary one. But at the same time, I can't shake the feeling that this is _right_ , this is _good_ , this is how things should be. I gasp a little into his mouth as I realize I'm hard as a rock. I hadn't even noticed until now! Even if my mind has a little trouble keeping up, it's obviously my body's okay with this, my body's _fit_ , and _good to go_! Besides, I was the one who started this. I kissed him first. And it's somehow important to me that I do this. Not just because Fraser's been alone all these months, but because _I want to_. 

I pull away from Fraser, stand up and then unbutton my jeans with shaking hands. I suddenly wish I hadn't bought the ones with the button fly, and the thought brings a nervous, little laugh out of me. I look at Fraser and for a moment, I think he'd gonna protest again, but he doesn't say anything, he just watches me as I slide the jeans over my hips and to the floor. I hesitate again when I reach for my boxers, the fabric tilting out from my erection. I'm feeling unbearably self-conscious, nervous, scared... but I really do want this! If I could just make my heart stop pounding so fucking hard in my chest...! Taking a deep breath, I slide the boxers down and then quickly sit down in front of Fraser again, feeling way too exposed standing above him naked. 

He makes this throaty little moan as my hands touch him again, and then pulls me to him. Grabbing my thighs, he shifts me, pulls me, moves me, until I'm sitting practically in his lap, my legs going over his thighs and around his waist. Our cocks bump each other, and my breathing catches in my throat. For a long while, we just sit there, hands roaming over each others backs, shoulders, faces, feeling each others' skin, until he finally moves a little against me, pressing our cocks tighter together. The pressure feels good, and my eyes fall shut against my will. I have to force myself to open them again, because I don't want to miss this, I need to make this memory stick, replace the ones that were lost. 

We rock gently together, and I can't take my eyes from Fraser's face. He watches me too, through half-open eyes, and there's such heat in his gaze... It turns me on like nothing else. I can see him fighting the temptation to close his eyes and just go with the sensations, but he seems just as intent as I to commit every single detail to memory. 

I kiss him hungrily, sucking at his bottom lip and trading his moan for one of my own. Then he breaks the kiss, and I watch as one of his hands move between us, sliding down our bodies until it finds our erections, grabbing them. I breathe heavily as pleasure spikes through me. My cock is held tightly in a strong fist, pressed up against his own, and I can't hold back a deep groan as he starts to jerk us off together. I can't imagine anything in life ever feeling this good, this right. I hold Fraser's eyes, and I know he _loves_ me, I know _he_ loves _me_ , and some part of me whisper that maybe I love him too? The emotions and pleasure threaten to overwhelm me, and my eyes finally fall shut as I orgasm, spurting warm come between us. I hear Fraser grunt, feel him jerk, and then there is more warm wetness on my belly and in my groin. 

My body is drained, and I pry my eyes open again as I let myself fall forward, resting against Fraser's strong shoulder. He's panting as heavily as I, and I shudder as he lets go of our softening cocks to put his arm around me again and kiss my neck. The room smells of sex, of come, and I wait for the panic to come and hit me like a moving truck, but it never does. I feel strangely calm, Fraser's arms around me as he continues to kiss and caress me. We sit there, embraced, for a long, long time. 

  


* * *

  


_The morning after._

Ray woke up disoriented. Looking around the darkened room, it took him a minute to register what was wrong - there was someone in bed with him, a warm body pressed against his back, an arm slung across his waist. Memory flooded him, and he remembered last night, remembered Fraser caressing him, kissing him, _touching_ him, and- _oh God_! _Fraser_! 

Panic gripped him harshly, and he nearly bolted right out of bed. It was a dream, it had to be, except it _wasn't_ , because he could feel the other man behind him, chest against his back, warm skin against his. His breathing started to quicken, and involuntarily his entire body started to shake, because this was _Fraser_ lying in his bed! _Fraser_ , his friend, _Fraser_ , his partner! Fraser had been keeping secrets, even though he never lied to Ray, and then the secrets were out, and then they'd been kissing! It was _Fraser_ he'd been kissing, _Fraser_ who had touched him, made him come, and he'd- 

Fraser's arm tightened around him, and a soft voice whispered soothing _ssh_ noises in his ear. 

"It's okay," Fraser whispered. "It'll be okay." 

Ray didn't feel like everything was gonna be okay, but he let Fraser pull him close to his chest, let Fraser whisper the reassuring words in his ear, until he started to believe it himself. Fraser never lied. Fraser was the poster boy for everything truthful and honest. Fraser didn't know _how_ to lie, didn't even know how to keep his feelings hidden from Ray. So when Fraser said it was gonna be okay, Ray had to believe him, he _had_ to. 

He didn't move, didn't speak, just let Fraser's whispers wash over him, comfort him, calm him, prying him from the grips of panic. Eventually he took a chance and let himself snuggle back against the warmth of Fraser's body as he slipped back to sleep.  
  
**End.**  
  


  
 

* * *

End Iqaqpaa by Nemi 

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